Oh fuck, this is the part where I’m supposed to talk about myself in third person.
Rachel Elizabeth has an MA in philosophy, a Wuthering Heights relationship with Web MD, and isn’t sure whether she’s been interrupted more times during her metaphysics grad seminar or during dirty talk. Men have described her as “complex”. Clinical psychologists have formally diagnosed her with Complex-PTSD.
Okay yeah, I can’t do this any longer. So far, I’ve spent my twenties studying feminist philosophy, getting spanked by narcissistic edge lords, and writing comedy about the burden of reconciling the two. Stick around for stories.